


Detritus

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Missing Scenes, Series 4 Compliant, extremely ill-advised prostate exams, hopefully no one gets the wrong idea, if John wanted Rosie to grow up normal he picked the wrong godparents, not exactly a happy ending but not an awful one?, these tags are a bit cracky but this fic is not, thou shalt not piss off Molly Hooper and expect to get away with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9633437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: "Say it like youmeanit."The words are uncharacteristically vicious for Molly Hooper. John and Mycroft, standing helplessly by, don't understand their origin, not really. But Sherlock does; he sees her, in this moment, as deeply and completely as she's always seen him.Missing scenes from series 4 as Sherlock tries to deal with the fallout and Molly just tries to keep up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, Gatiss and Moffat's rendition is property of the BBC. This work is for fun and not profit.
> 
> So, series 4 destroyed me for a while (and TFP has completely fucked the Sherlolly WIPs I've got going on). This is my attempt at a TFP post-mortem. I thought I'd throw another 'Sherlock and Molly deal with the aftermath' fic onto the pile, but my brain intervened and insisted that "oh I bet we can make that scene EVEN MORE gut wrenching, so let's totally do that instead."
> 
> Luckily, Molly Hooper is goddamned indestructible. Hang on to that, duckies.
> 
> Comments, crits, and nitpicking my inevitable typos are always welcome. Angst is not really my forte.

Standing at Molly's door, Sherlock doesn't bother with his key or even the bell – both options require more manual dexterity than his shaking fingers feel capable of at the moment. He clenches his hand into a fist and bangs heavily against the wood. Bits of blood flake off from his glove where the fluid has dried onto the leather and drift to the floor like crimson snowflakes to land on Molly's disgustingly friendly mat.

There's a patter of feet from inside and the door is yanked open. Although he's expecting it, Sherlock nearly topples through anyway. "Do you mind?" Molly says in a hiss. "You'll wake-"

Then her rich brown eyes meet his hollowed out ones. The hand holding together the lapels of her dressing gown clutches tightly at the fabric, crinkling it into sharp creases.

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

"Mary's dead," Sherlock says. He doesn't topple through the door but into it; his own weight is suddenly too much to bear so he has to brace himself on the frame. More blood flakes away from his glove. Some of it sticks to the painted white wood of the casing, some of it drifts away on a current of warm air escaping Molly's flat.

Molly's phone rings, and she starts badly before fumbling it out of her pocket. "It's John," she says after a quick glance at the screen. Answering it, she steps clear of the doorway and moves into the interior of the flat. "Yes? John, I just heard; I'm so sorry."

Sherlock can't hear John's voice on the other end, but he can hear John's fury in the wide stretch of Molly's eyes when she turns to look back at him. Sherlock has been left impotent on the doorstep, unable to heed the words on Molly's doormat and enter, but equally powerless to flee the scene of his terrible crime. From further inside comes the thin, waking wail of a little girl who will never know her mother now.

"Yes, he's here," Molly is saying. "But, I don't … Okay, okay, I won't, but …" She pauses for a longer time, shifting uncomfortably as her eyes dart to Sherlock, then down to the floor, then back to Sherlock. "No, I don't understand, but it's fine … Yes, yes, of course, as long as you need. We'll just pop round in the morning … Get some rest, John. And call me if you need anything."

Molly signs off and drops her phone back into her pocket. "What did you do, Sherlock?" she asks, eerily calm.

Sherlock shakes his head. He means to go but when he tries to stand straight, his knees won't hold and Sherlock has to maintain his grip on the door frame.

"Come inside," Molly says.

"I can't," Sherlock replies, finally finding his voice. "John doesn't want me to."

"This is my flat, Sherlock Holmes." Still, Molly maintains her composure. It's a bit like the stagnant lull that settles heavy in the air before a hurricane makes landfall, something Sherlock has never forgotten from his time in Florida. The drugs he'd pumped into his veins hadn't done a thing to dull the sharp, visceral terror he'd felt when he'd stepped outside to watch the storm's approach. "Are you a danger to Rosie?"

"No!" Sherlock swallows back the lump in his throat. "Of course not."

When he opens his eyes – he doesn't remember when he squeezed them shut – Molly is holding the door open wide, waiting. "Then come inside," she says. "You're letting out the heat."

It's a trite reason for obeying, but Sherlock does so anyway. Before he crosses the threshold, he pulls off the blood stained glove, then the other – useless without the first and he's unlikely to ever don this pair again – and drops them on Molly's mat. She makes a noise, but the quick shake of Sherlock's head stills her question before it can be voiced.

"I shouldn't be here," Sherlock says quietly.

"Sit down, Sherlock." He does, perching at the edge of his chair in her living room. "You are not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on," Molly says, hands clenched into fists. Here is the storm he's been waiting for, but it doesn't bluster and shake the rafters. It breaks quietly, spilling down Molly's cheeks. "You always do this. You never tell me what's happening. Not about Jim being Moriarty. Not about the drugs and that bridesmaid. Not when you nearly got shipped off to die in Eastern Europe." She lifts her chin and pins him to the chair as neatly as a butterfly to a board with only a glare. "But Mary," Molly's breath hitches. "Mary was my friend too, and you are going to tell me what the hell happened. Wait here."

Rosie is wailing in earnest by now. Sherlock waits and listens to Molly as she goes down the hall and puts away her hurts while she coos gently, singing the baby back to sleep. Sherlock waits and watches the closed front door. It would be easy to slip away while Molly is distracted. He could be long gone before she realized, but he is still in his chair when Molly slips out of the spare room and returns.

"I killed Mary," he says without prompting.

Molly, just at the corner of his vision, stops without properly entering the living room. "That's what John said." She doesn't believe it; that much is obvious from her quiet patience as she waits for the real explanation.

Perversely, it makes Sherlock angry. "Don't think I'm capable? Did anyone bother to explain to you why I was nearly exiled?"

"Yes," Molly says, cutting him off with that one word. She comes up next to him, lays her hand on the back of his chair, just by his shoulder, but not touching. "Mary told me, about Magnussen. Everything."

Sherlock slumps forward, pressing his face into his hands. "It's my fault," he says.

How she understands the words, muffled as they were, Sherlock doesn't know. Molly squats down next to him, touching his knee with two fingers. "Tell me what happened," she commands.

His hands slip upwards, fingers tangling in his curls, and he does. The story bubbles out of him in fits and starts, his normally well-ordered mind in chaos.

Molly is quiet while he speaks, has no reaction at all except to spread her hand over his knee, gripping gently. The press of warmth that seeps through his trousers grounds him when he falters, and Sherlock carries on doggedly. He holds nothing back. Nothing. His eidetic memory works against him as he describes every word, every twitch, every breath. Sherlock can't seem to censor even the slightest thing. Self-censorship not being among his proficiencies to start, with Molly kneeling at his side, her brown eyes looking up at him solemnly, he's lost what little ability he had to do so.

"It is my fault," he finishes finally. "I should have... I-"

Molly's fingers tighten on his knee as she pushes herself to her feet. Before he can react, she has slipped an arm around his neck, pulling his head against her breast. Sherlock's arms instinctively lift up to loosely circle her waist as Molly bends over him, lips pressed into the curls at his crown. She makes no noise, but a few fat tears fall against his scalp.

Neither does she refute his statement, and the silence echoes harshly. He leans back to disentangle himself, a task made more difficult by Molly's reluctance to release him. "Molly," he says hoarsely, and she obeys his unspoken request, her arms falling away.

"Stay here tonight," Molly says.

He looks away, to the door and his imminent escape. To what, Sherlock doesn't know. It's been a long time since he's run from something rather than towards something, not since he met John Watson. But there's little doubt that he's running away now. It's only a shame that there's nowhere he can run to get away from the mess he's made.

"I can't," he says. "John..."

"Rosie is sleeping in the spare room with the door closed," Molly says with a set face. "John doesn't want you to see her and you won't. But don't go home to an empty flat."

At the mention of his goddaughter, Sherlock turns towards the hall. "I don't want to put you out," he says, fully aware of the irony of his statement. A year ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to take over Molly's bedroom – had done so on more than one occasion. But today he is all too cognizant of the fragility of friendship; that it can be destroyed with a single, fatal mistake.

Mycroft likes to wax poetical on the fleeting nature of life, and for years Sherlock avoided creating ties with people, unable to stomach such a loss. For the first time, Sherlock is considering that there are other ways of losing a loved one, and fear clenches at his gut that he's lost John's regard for good this time.

Simple, ordinary, dull Molly Hooper sees through him, as she has always done, and says, "John needs some time, Sherlock." Her small hand grips the sleeve of his jacket. "Please don't go home to an empty flat tonight. Please, Sherlock."

A shudder rips through him as he looks down into her wet, brown eyes, and Sherlock sags a little, defeated. "Thank you," he manages to murmur.

Molly's relief is palpable as she leads him down the hall towards her bedroom. Sherlock sheds his coat while Molly digs in her drawers for the set of his pajamas that she keeps for him. "I'll just be on the sofa," she says, lying the clothes on the bed. "If you need anything."

Sherlock catches her wrist with a trembling hand. "Don't go." Even his voice is shaking as the trembling in his hands spreads to the rest of his lanky frame. In some distant part of his brain, he catalogs the reaction as his body's response to the stress of the last few hours. It's frustrating, to once again be proven so human, with human fears and needs. But at the moment his greatest need is overwhelming everything else. "Stay. Please?"

Biting her lip, Molly nods quickly in response to his heart wrenching plea. "Okay," she says. "I'll just step outside while you change."

His grip tightens around her wrist. "No. Help me." Sherlock holds out his other hand, fingers shaking violently, not sure what he's asking. But by Molly's sharp indrawn breath, she does.

"Okay."

Molly gently frees herself from his grip and places her hands on his shoulders, smoothing down his lapels in a comforting caress before she dips her hands inside his jacket to push it off his shoulders. Sherlock flicks his arms and the jacket falls to the floor. Molly catches one of his hands in both of hers, turning it over to expose the button on his cuff. Unfastening it, she moves to his other side and repeats the process. Sherlock stands still, arms hanging at his side where she has dropped them, while Molly deftly undoes his shirt buttons, tugging his shirt tails from his trousers to reach the last ones.

When his shirt is fully unbuttoned and hanging loose, Molly stops and looks up at him uncertainly. "Sherlock?" The question is there, though she doesn't put it to voice. It's the one she always asks, and the same thing she's always offered.

Sherlock takes her hands in his, finally understanding what he's asking her. Like all the things he's ever asked of her, it's too much. "Please," he says, putting her hands on his chest, inside his shirt.

"Okay," she says for a third time. Her hands slide up, over bare skin of his pectoral and collarbone, curving over his shoulders to brace herself as she lifts up on her toes.

Sherlock barely has to tilt his head down to touch his lips to hers and take what she's offering. It's always too much, the things he takes from her. But it's what he needs, and as always, Molly does not hesitate to give him that.

…

Molly wakes to an empty bed, a soreness in muscles that haven't seen use since she'd gotten shot of Tom, and a wailing baby in her spare room. There's also, Molly realizes as she rises to tend Rosie, a host of images that have transcended fantasy into reality. Molly scrubs at her eyes in aggravation, as if that will rid her of them, and sets about changing Rosie's soiled diaper.

It's the last one of the stack she'd grabbed from John and Mary's flat last night, and Molly knows she needs to get over to John's – just John's flat now, she realizes, swallowing back a lump in her throat – to resupply, as she's agreed to take care of Rosie until John finds his footing. Thankfully it's her day off, so she doesn't have to worry about that as well.

But breakfast is the first order of the day. Molly leaves Rosie in her cot while she heads for the kitchen, intent on making up a bottle of formula and whatever she can scrounge for herself while the kettle boils. She smells the pot of coffee as she comes down the hall, but still nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees Sherlock sitting at the bar that separates her kitchen from the sitting room.

"Morning," Molly says as she skirts around him.

There's a bottle prepared, sitting next to the coffee pot, just the right temperature. She pours herself a cup of coffee, thinking absently of Mary's amused retelling of Sherlock Holmes: Wedding Planner Extraordinaire. There's a simple truth about Sherlock buried in that story, the same truth that's echoed on her counter. When Sherlock is out of his depth, he must take some action.

If cups of coffee and a bottle for Rosie are the best that Sherlock can manage today, then Molly is at a loss. The night he'd thrown himself off the roof of St Barts, he'd sent her off to Waitrose with a fist full of cash and a very detailed list, rearranged her kitchen for maximum efficiency while she was out, then cooked enough food to fill her previously empty fridge. Cooking was merely chemistry, he'd explained haughtily when Molly expressed her delighted surprise. While she slept, he'd cleaned her flat from top to bottom, leaving before dawn with a note that said only that he hadn't vacuumed because he'd not wanted to wake her.

But today Sherlock has none of the frenetic energy that had overwhelmed him while he waited to embark on his mission to destroy Moriarty's network. Molly peeks at him when she turns to get some milk from the fridge. Sherlock sits limply at her counter, looking hollowed out.

"I have to go out," Molly says, although she is certain that her words are unheeded. It's an impulse she can't control, to fill the silence with something. "I'll take Rosie with me, of course. You're welcome to stay."

Sherlock stirs himself, lifting his head. Molly's breath catches. She's entirely unable to suppress the memory of those storm colored eyes from the night before, glowing in the low light as he'd looked up at her from between her thighs.

"Molly," he says. The one word is tentative, nervous, and entirely unlike Sherlock. "Last night..."

"You don't have to say anything," Molly says tightly.

But Sherlock is determined, and in this at least, he's the same way he's always been. "It didn't mean-"

"I know." She doesn't need to hear the words. More than that, she can't stand to hear them, and it seems that Sherlock understands because he falls silent at her interruption. "I know what it was. And it's okay." Molly stubbornly blinks away her tears. It seems an awful thing to cry over something she's known for years – _Sherlock doesn't love her and never will_ – when Mary's not even been dead for a full twenty-four hours.

Sherlock jerks a little and looks at her, really looks, with the same searching surprise that had graced his expression the day she'd told him she didn't count. "I-" He falters, shakes himself, and says, still unsure, "I'm sorry."

Molly knows that too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must give a shout out to Ariane DeVere's Sherlock transcripts [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), which have been immensely helpful. Consequently, any dialogue you may recognize is obviously lifted from the show.
> 
> One more part to go. Then maybe I can get back to this serial killer fic that I was working on before series 4 came out.
> 
> As always, I enjoy your comments.

It's days later when Sherlock drops in at John's, only for Molly and Rosie to answer the door in his best friend's stead. He knows as soon as he sees her face what she's going to say, although the note is a bit of a surprise. Even without reading the contents, the fact that John bothered to write it bolsters Sherlock's hopes somewhat. It won't be easy, this case that Mary has assigned to him, but he's starting to think that it may have a chance.

And if he's wrong, well. It won't matter.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Molly is stricken. "He says … Jo-John said if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help..."

Molly has known this would happen, Sherlock realizes suddenly, since her conversation over the phone with John the night Mary died. That is the reason she had been so quiet on the subject, so reluctant to offer him reassurances about his part in Mary's death. Maybe she had even realized that she would be standing here, reluctantly thrust between John's fury and Sherlock's guilt.

The note in his hand pricks at him painfully, burning through the leather of his gloves. "Yes?" he says, prompting. It won't make it easier for Molly to say them, but like the natural proclivity one has to pick at a scab, Sherlock can't help but dig out the words. He needs to hear them.

And Molly never denies him what he needs. Even when it pains her to do so. "He … said he'd r … that he'd rather have anyone but you." Her voice drops, choked with tears. "Anyone."

Clutching Rosie to her breast, Molly flees into the house.

…

The day after, Molly turns up at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson lets her in, and the door to 221B is never locked, so her entrance takes him by surprise.

Luckily, Wiggins is out procuring supplies and shouldn't be back for hours yet. That doesn't stop Molly from noticing the haphazard array of lab equipment strewn over the kitchen table. "Experiment," Sherlock says before she can ask, privately thankful that the glassware hasn't yet been assembled.

Molly Hooper is a lot of things. Stupid isn't one of them.

"What brings you by? Delivering another letter?" Molly flinches at the harsh words. Sherlock doesn't know why he says them, but they do have the effect of drawing Molly's attention from the setup on his kitchen table, so he can't entirely regret them.

"You're such a git," Molly says under her breath but with an air of resignation. She straightens her shoulders, though her arms remain clenched around her torso. "I'm sorry about John."

That's not what Sherlock expects. He grunts some sort of reply and moves to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"It wasn't your fault." Molly's words stop Sherlock in his tracks. He turns halfway, twisting his torso, to look at her. "I … I think I … the other night, I didn't tell you, but..."

Sherlock rests his hand on the kitchen table. His fingers land next to a set of tubing, fingertips just touching the glass, and Sherlock winds up staring down at the detritus strewn across the laminate surface. There's a cost among the jumble, one that can't be measured in pounds and pence.

Molly sidles up behind him and touches her fingertips to his dressing gown clad arm, just above his elbow. "Sherlock?"

His head dips down. He has taken the time to calculate it, this cost. There's his sobriety – a frail thing at the best of times. There's the work. It will suffer, and that stings more than a bit. Probably have to throw his kidneys in there as well, if he and Wiggins have got the dosages right.

"I should've …" Molly inhales, breath hitching a little. "I really should have said right away, okay? And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It's a cost he's prepared to pay. For John's sake. For Mary's. But...

"You didn't kill Mary, Sherlock. I know she wouldn't want you to think that."

He always misses something. Always. Always.

Molly's fingers skitter off of his arm as Sherlock spins in a tight circle. His cheeks sting, both of them, as sharp a pain from merely the recollection of Molly's blows as he'd endured the day she delivered them. Her brown eyes look up at him through delicate lashes, and Sherlock's gut twists as he catalogs every centimeter of her face, finally filling in the piece that he's missed in his calculations.

He can't have this. Not anymore, not if he's going to save John. Sherlock knows now, as she watches him with unguarded concern, that Molly's fury the day she tested him for drugs during the Magnussen case will be nothing against the torrent when she learns about this. And still, because it is for John Watson, he would give up the world, never mind Molly Hooper.

And yet. There had been a time, a few precious minutes, when his entire world had _been_ Molly Hooper. When she took him into her arms and her body and soothed away his burdens.

"Th-that thing we-" Sherlock stops. Swallows. He shifts his eyes away from her, and they land back on the kitchen table. He clears his throat. "The thing we did before..."

"Yes?" Molly prompts. It doesn't escape his notice that she's a little breathless.

"Can we do it again?"

Sherlock's question falls into a sudden, still silence. God, but it's selfish to even ask; even he realizes that. Once can be excused, a desperate anesthesia for the hollow echoes of grief. But a second time... no. Sherlock makes a quarter turn, reaching for the glassware on the table in front of him, hands working mindlessly, senselessly rearranging the tubes and beakers.

"Forgive me," he says. "I didn't mean to say..."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Molly move. She drags the strap of her bag over her head. It falls to the floor with a thump. Sherlock's hands stop moving; he's frozen, waiting on Molly's cue.

"What do you need?"

There are so many answers to that question. But they can all be summed up in one word. "You."

They don't make it to the bedroom. Sherlock fucks her against the wall in the hallway, with his front door unlocked for all and sundry to walk in on them. Molly isn't quiet when she peaks, but while she shudders around him, Sherlock's mind is. He tucks his face into the crook of her neck as he follows her, surrounded utterly by her cries and her limbs and her pretty little cunt.

She smells like lemons and putrefaction. He fills his lungs with the scent, memorizing it.

"Don't come here anymore," Sherlock says when it's over.

He's still inside her. That close, he can't pretend he doesn't notice the way she stiffens. Sherlock lets her down gently and steps away, pulling his clothes back into place while she does the same. Neither party meets the other's eyes – a mockery, as if they have some modesty left to preserve by doing so.

"John..." Sherlock's throat is tight. "He won't like it."

Molly growls. Inanely, he thinks that the sound is more suited to a kitten than a pathologist. "If you think-"

"He needs you," Sherlock says. "John and … and the baby. I don't think I need to explain the concept of transference to you, Molly."

She deflates when she realizes what he's getting at – that John is angry enough at Sherlock to cut off ties with Molly just for associating with his ex-best friend. When she doesn't refute him, Sherlock knows she agrees with his assessment. Molly fiddles with the hem of her jumper. "John doesn't need to know..."

"He will." Sherlock lets his lips lift upward in the bare bones of a smile. "I have taught him a few things, I think."

Molly doesn't latch onto his humor. Her eyes are stuck on his kitchen table, just visible through the doorway behind him. "Sherlock..."

"Don't come back," he says again, a little urgently. The temptation to glance back at his setup, to see what's caught Molly's eye, is blindingly strong, but he shoves it away with some desperation. "John, Molly. I need you to look after John. Please, will you do this for me?"

She swallows and looks at her feet. But Molly, as ever, acquiesces to his needs. "Okay." Her stance shifts suddenly, and she snaps her head up, eyes burning as fiercely as the day she'd slapped him. "But only if you promise that if you need anything-"

"I promise," he lies.

Molly sinks into herself a little. "I am sorry," he adds quietly.

She edges past him to step into the kitchen and collect her bag. "Yeah," she says, inspecting it in a detached manner for anything especially horrid that the fabric might have absorbed from Sherlock's floor. "Me too."

…

The ambulance rocks slightly as it makes a turn. Molly hasn't said a word since her conversation with John, except to deliver clipped instructions. She moves about with jerky, stilted motions, digging through the supply bins while Sherlock sits on the gurney and watches.

"Lie down." Her words are short and business-like, but when she turns, she won't look him in the eyes.

"Oh you're angry," Sherlock says as if he's only just deduced that fact. "How dull." He can see her forcibly bite back a response as she leans over him and starts percussing his abdomen. "You can't say you're surprised by all this." One hand – translucent, _frail;_ Sherlock frowns at it for a moment – lifts to gesture vaguely down his body.

"Surprised? No." Molly takes her hands off of him and picks up the tube she had fished out of the well-stocked ambulance's supplies. "Pants off, please. And turn over."

His hands are at the waistband of his pants when logic finally kicks in. Sherlock stops, narrowing his eyes at the gel in her hand. "You're not serious."

"You did ask for a physical," Molly says in that same tone. Professional and detached.

She's not having him on, Sherlock realizes. He instinctively scoots back on the gurney when she steps towards him. "We're in an ambulance," he says.

"I had noticed. Thank you." Molly's brown eyes flicker meaningfully down to his pants and one eyebrow lifts expectantly.

"A _moving_ ambulance," Sherlock says, his voice just betraying an edge of apprehension. Molly is still waiting patiently, unmoved. The first thing she did was weigh him, so Sherlock knows exactly how much he's lost, and vaguely he wonders if it's enough that Molly can haul him around. "This really isn't the best place, actually."

"Isn't it?" Molly says, infuriatingly calm. "But I'm sure you asked for _my help_ ," she breaks form, finally, to hiss those two words, "because you appreciate the quality of my work. And I would be remiss if I was less than thorough."

She stands over him as fierce a Valkyrie poised over a battlefield, drenched in blood and plucking the lucky dead to Valhalla. From her thunderous expression, Sherlock is to be left among the corpses. Molly Hooper is furious, even beyond the furthest extent that he had dreamed she could be. He thinks, in this moment, that he will gladly accept her anger, if that's all he can have from her. There's a wild, twisting heat in his chest as he looks up into her glittering, brown eyes, and Sherlock thinks it's something like love.

Although, in all probability, that bit is just the drugs.

The ambulance rolls quietly to a stop. Molly's facade falls, anger subsiding, and she says, "Just... why? Why are you doing this?"

"I can't tell you." There's a reason – something to do with John, probably – but his brain is skipping like a broken record and Sherlock isn't entirely sure what it is. "I'm sorry," he says. That, at least, is always a safe thing to say when Molly is concerned.

She makes an irritated noise and turns away, fumbling with the tube in her hand as she returns it to the bin where she'd found it.

"Change your mind?" The cheeky words fall out of his mouth mindlessly. "A moment ago you were so concerned about being thorough."

"I think I've seen enough to make a diagnosis," Molly says flatly. "Get dressed."

He's still buttoning his shirt when she opens the back door and lowers herself to sit on the step, hunched over her knees while they wait for the limousine to catch them up. Sherlock slips on his coat and lays back on the gurney. They're not more than five feet apart, but he's never felt so far away.

…

"What are you thinking?" Molly jumps at the deep voice in her ear, rich with humor. "Chocolate? Or … chocolate?"

Tearing her gaze from the cakes on display, Molly looks up into a set of mercurial gray-blue eyes. At the moment, they are crinkled at the corners, with an expression that doesn't quite sit right on Sherlock's face. Usually it's because it's not genuine, but today there's more of an air of trying too hard.

Molly returns to inspecting the cake display, full of attractive, towering cakes in every flavor imaginable (and no less than three varieties of chocolate among them), sold in fat slices that will probably make her sick if she tries to eat one in its entirety. Not that Molly is going to let that possibility stop her. Life, as she's been learning of late, is too short for regrets. If something comes back later to bite her in the arse, then well, at least she's determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

"The red velvet is tempting," she says.

"Technically still chocolate," Sherlock replies smugly.

Only Sherlock would not know about the solar system and yet somehow be aware that red velvet cake is made with cocoa powder. While Molly is busy rolling her eyes, Sherlock orders her slice along with his own selection. "Oh, let me," she says when Sherlock goes to pay, fumbling to get her wallet out of her bag.

He waves her off. "I think I can buy you a slice of cake, after everything." Despite his usual easy confidence when he speaks, she catches him glancing sideways at her.

"You shouldn't buy your own cake on your birthday, though … oh." Molly trails off as the woman manning the counter sets three slices out before them; the third obviously meant for John, who has taken Rosie and grabbed them an empty table in the tiny dining area. "John's paying, is he?"

Sherlock peers at the cash in his hand with rapidly dawning understanding before he hands it over. "Ah. Tradition. That does explain John's unprecedented generosity."

"Then I'll be sure to thank him," Molly says. Sherlock is entirely unrepentant about misrepresenting his own generosity, and she can't help but smile.

They carry the cakes to the table and when Sherlock goes back to the counter to fetch the coffees he'd apparently also ordered when Molly hadn't been paying attention, John turns to her and asks, "So, how long have you known?"

There's a bit of bitter amusement and resigned exasperation in John's tone that's standard, really, for anything to do with Sherlock. But it takes her a moment to realize what he's talking about. "You mean Sherlock's birthday. Um." Molly chews on her lip as she watches Sherlock make his way back, two coffees in to go cups held in one large hand, while he sips out of a third. "A few years. I signed the death certificate when..."

"Oh." A brief moment of consternation at the reminder of those two, bleak years crosses John's face, but clears quicker than Molly expects. "I never did thank you for that," he says lowly just as Sherlock approaches the table. Then, with a grin and at a normal tone, he adds, "Not really sure I want to, sometimes."

"Thank Molly for what?" Sherlock asks as he sits down.

"Saving your worthless hide," John replies.

The detective sniffs in mild indignation. "I'll have you know, John, my hide is hardly worthless. Fetishists will pay top whack for human hides; five hundred pounds was the going rate a few years back."

John has such a look of horrified disgust that Molly has to smother a giggle into her coffee cup. "But they'd pay more for yours, surely," she says. "Since there's so much more of you than average."

Sherlock's eyes jump over to her, startled as if maybe he'd forgotten she was there. There is a long moment while Molly berates herself and tries not to squirm in her seat, before Sherlock breaks into a grin. And it occurs to her that, for once, her morbid sense of humor is not only appropriate but appreciated.

"Right, okay," John says. "Can you not discuss things like that around Rosie in future? I'd like her to have at least a small chance of coming out somewhat normal."

Sherlock tilts his head at his friend. "It's my birthday," he says with all the angelic innocence of a five-year-old. "There are exceptions for birthdays."

John groans while Sherlock chuckles, and the pair start trading playful barbs while Molly watches with amusement. They aren't entirely back to their old, easy camaraderie, but this is a step in the right direction, and it's easy to see that their friendship is well on its way to being repaired.

At some point, Rosie starts to fuss. John, without the slightest break in his recounting of one of Sherlock's more embarrassing exploits, digs through the baby bag for jar of mashed peas and pops a spoonful in the baby's mouth. Molly very nearly beats him to it; she's had Rosie more often than not since Mary's death, and it's an instinctive reaction to Rosie's hungry noises. But she manages to quell it with only a twitch of her hand to betray her.

Of course that's as good as holding up a giant cardboard sign for Sherlock Holmes. Molly very nearly levitates out of her chair when a large hand wraps around her knee under the table and squeezes gently.

"Thank you," he says once they've returned to Baker Street, the first words out of his mouth since they parted company with John and Rosie.

"It's fine." Molly's not entirely sure what Sherlock is thanking her for. Probably it's about looking after John, but this is Sherlock, so for all she knows he's expressing his gratitude that she'd decided not to give him a prostate exam that day in the ambulance (a childish reaction, yes, but she'd been so angry). It hardly matters, as her response is still the same.

"I mean it, Molly Hooper," Sherlock says. His deep voice thrums through her like notes vibrating along a violin string. "I realized I … I've never thanked you. Not in so many words." He really hasn't, a day of crime solving and an offer of chips aside. But then, the simple things don't come easily to Sherlock.

His hand on her shoulder draws her gaze upwards, and Molly's lips part slightly as she observes his dilated pupils, ringed by a thin strip of shifting, stormy blue. It's a sight she's only been privy to a few times before; most recently, the couple of times they've fucked, but the first time she'd seen him in this state he'd been pumped full of a lethal cocktail of narcotics.

There aren't any drugs in his system today, she's sure of that, but Sherlock's still an addict, and it's that reminder that makes her take a step back, far enough that his hand falls off her shoulder. "I can't-" Her eyes slip sideways, automatically seeking the door, as she wrings her hands together. "We can't do this anymore."

Sherlock at least has the decency not to pretend like he doesn't know what she's talking about. "I see," he says, drifting away towards the kitchen to make tea or set up an experiment.

Molly sags into the couch. Despite her convictions, she knows how easy it would be to carry on with this thing they've started. Sherlock is like a force of nature, and Molly has been swept up by him time and again. It's not something she's proud of, but there it is.

Still, she's sticking to her determination not to regret what's happened. Sex with Sherlock has been a little like overindulging in sweets. The act itself was gratifying, but came back to bite her later with a churning intensity that left her heaving up her guts. Consequently, it isn't something she's eager to repeat any time soon.

Besides, with John's friendship restored to him, he doesn't need her any longer, filling in for what was missing. If the thought is a bit bitter, Molly doesn't acknowledge it.

The couch sinks next to her, and Molly finds a hot cuppa pressed into the hands lying in her lap, held there patiently until her fingers curl around the china. Sherlock is unusually quiet and still. When Molly flicks her gaze to his face, she half expects to see that vague, faraway look that comes when he's in his mind palace, but his eyes are focused, staring through the open doors into the kitchen. It's only then that she realizes that he's looking at the same place where she had been staring for the eight minutes or so it's taken him to make tea. Just beyond it is the spot where he had pinned her to the wall and ruthlessly fucked her until she had literally screamed – an unprecedented occurrence on her part.

"I've hurt you," Sherlock says.

Molly sips at her tea. "No," she replies. He turns, finally, disbelief etched in every line of his face. "If I'm hurt, it's not your doing, Sherlock."

He still doesn't seem convinced, but Sherlock _is_ something of a genius, so he accepts her absolution without argument. "You don't have to stay, Molly," he says instead.

John Watson might be willing to believe that, but Molly – as the one person who always sees through Sherlock's shit – knows better. "It's alright," she lies. "It's only a couple of hours. Greg is coming after his shift." She fumbles through her bag, digging out her phone to check the time.

Setting her cup on the table, Molly draws up her knees and types out a text. Next to her, Sherlock remains in place, unnaturally stiff as he periodically sips his tea. His reluctance to leave her side is endearing in its way, but it itches at her because this is an inadequate mimicry of what she wants. There's nothing easy about this companionship.

Molly jiggles in her seat, prompting Sherlock to finally look down at her. "I am sorry," he says.

The frustration that's been bubbling under her skin finally boils over, and Molly jumps up, skirting the coffee table to spin sharply on her heels in the center of the sitting room. "You're always sorry!" she says. Then has to stop and take a deep breath because her voice is thin and thready and bordering on hysterical. "You did hurt me," Molly finishes when she's calmed down some.

Sherlock's brow furrows in obvious confusion. "But you said..."

"This isn't about the sex," Molly cuts in flatly. "You could have died, Sherlock. You always do these things," her hand flails out, gesturing at the kitchen table, recently emptied of lab equipment, "like it doesn't even matter. Like you have the right to toss it all away."

He stands up suddenly, empty cup swinging uselessly from one hand as he defends his actions with a glare directed at her down that aristocratic nose. "It was for John, Molly."

"Bollocks." That one, savage curse cuts him off as violently as a punch to the mouth. "Look me in the eyes," Molly says, white-knuckled fists clenched at her sides. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you really believe that's all it was."

He doesn't. Sherlock bends down to set his cup on the table with a clatter. Runs his hands through his curls, disheveling them in his frustration. But he won't meet her eyes, and that's enough of an answer. "I'm sorry."

"Stop it," Molly spits. "Stop apologizing because you don't know what else to say." Guilt twists his face, and she knows she's right. Molly sighs, bringing her hands up to her chest, defensively. "You just don't get it."

"No," Sherlock says. Now he meets her eyes, anguish painted in the storm colored irises. "I _don't_ understand. I wish I did, Molly. The woman John loves died saving my life, and I don't know what to say to him. And you..." Sherlock swallows, and Molly finds her eyes fixed on the movement of his throat, until he continues in a quiet, confessional tone, "I always ask too much from you."

She doesn't deny it. There's not much point in trying.

When Greg shows up half an hour early, Sherlock isn't the slightest bit surprised.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who left a review or kudos. Feedback is writer food.
> 
> I have acquired a tumblr, somehow, under the name ll-again. I have no idea what to *do* with it, but hit me up if you are so inclined. I need some more Sherlolly on my dash.

_Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself_.

Cameras in Molly's flat. At Baker Street. Sherlock doesn't feel a sense of violation, so much as a sudden, sickening understanding. Of course Eurus knows. Stupid to think that anyone would overlook her now just because Moriarty hadn't seen her for what she was worth. He should have been expecting this from the moment that Eurus trapped them in this maze of hers, like lab rats in some twisted behavioral study.

_No, I know you’re not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends._

The gun clatters loudly on the concrete floor as it falls unheeded from Sherlock's hand. He passes the open coffin, fixated on its lid, still propped where Mycroft left it. The plaque gleams in the light, briefly obscuring the engraving as he moves closer. But the words can't be erased.

Especially not now.

He reaches for the lid, curls his fingers around the edge of the plain, practical wood, and he lifts it up with far more delicacy than he's ever handled the woman for whom it was intended. All his touted genius, Sherlock thinks, is worth nothing in this moment. For all his logic and disciplined thinking, he's managed to overlook something momentous.

But it's true. It's always been true.

_Say it. Say it like you_ mean _it_.

The words were uncharacteristically vicious for the unassuming Molly Hooper. John and Mycroft, standing by, powerless to intervene, hadn't understood their origin, not really. But Sherlock, for maybe the first time where Molly was concerned, had. Quite clearly.

As much as he's taken from her, she's always had more to give. All the pieces that make up Molly Hooper, and he's only now seeing the ones that matter.

_Unmarried, practical about death, alone_.

Sherlock places the lid on Molly's coffin, lining it up with care, as he would treat something as delicate and precious as a hard to come by sample for one of his experiments. His hand slides tenderly over the wood as he takes one final look at the inscription on the brass plate.

This isn't Molly Hooper, Sherlock thinks. The words swirl through his mind like a cyclone, tearing away at everything else; Eurus, the game, the girl on the plane, all of it takes a temporary back seat to his mounting rage.

The woman that belongs in this coffin – the one he'd initially painted with his deductions – is _not_ Molly Hooper. Eurus was wrong about her, because _he_ was wrong; all these years and it's only now that he doesn't just observe, he finally, really sees her.

Sherlock takes a step back from the empty box, one hand fumbles at the button of his jacket, slipping it through the buttonhole. This is not going to _be_ Molly Hooper, he thinks savagely as he raises his arm. And his fist smashes down into the wood.

…

She doesn't knock on the door, just pushes it open and steps inside, closing it quietly behind her. Sherlock is sprawled on the bed, on top of the duvet, wearing a t-shirt that's a bit too big and pajama bottoms that are too short, both clearly borrowed.

Molly can't help but be amused that Sherlock has commandeered John's bedroom. It's a small blip on her radar however, largely buried by a general sense of horror sprung from learning the events of the last twenty-four hours.

"Molly," he says in surprise when she enters. Sherlock sits up and swings his legs off the bed, putting his bare feet on the floor, but he doesn't stand. "Why are you here?"

The question is quintessential Sherlock, but there's none of the usual, brisk bite in his tone. The realization makes tears spring to her eyes, and Molly blinks them back furiously. "What happened to your hands?" she says, aghast, as he brings them up to rest on his knees.

Sherlock lifts them up and examines the scratches dispassionately. A few of the deeper ones are bandaged, but the rest are laid bare and angrily criss-cross his white skin. He clears his throat. "Bad day."

"Oh Sherlock," Molly says, pressing her fingers to her mouth.

It doesn't escape her that he's echoing her own words from yesterday. Not to be cruel, she can see that. But he's so obviously bewildered by the events he's endured that he can't find any words of his own to describe them.

Before she can say anything else, he shakes himself and says, "Greg..." Sherlock pauses, looking a bit bewildered, as if even he is surprised at getting the detective's name correct. "Lestrade. Sent someone to your flat?"

Molly nods. "No bombs," she chirps, trying for cheerful although she doesn't quite manage.

Sherlock props his elbows on his knees and ruffles his curls in his agitation. "Good, that's … Eurus said there wasn't, but..."

His head pops up, and he looks at her with wide, tense eyes. "Molly." A frisson of tension shivers up her spine, because Molly recognizes that look. It's the same one he had the night before he fell, and the same as the one he'd given her in her bedroom the night Mary died. Both times asking her for her help, and now, today, Molly isn't sure she can help him, no matter how much she wants to. "Molly," Sherlock says again. "When I called you yesterday..."

Her stomach twists hard enough that it feels as though it's been tied in a knot. "I don't want to talk about that," she says flatly. She doesn't have it in her to soften her tone.

There's pity in his gaze now; she's sure it's not her imagination. But maybe it's the years of being exposed to Sherlock's deductive prowess, or maybe just because it's Sherlock, Molly also notices his distress. It's in the fingers he's twisted into the fabric at his knees and the rigid line of his shoulders.

"It wasn't me. Well, of course, it _was_ me, but..." He's practically babbling, or as good as in Sherlock-speak. Molly is all too familiar with the behavior not to recognize it in someone else.

"Mycroft told me," she blurts as a mercy to him. Sherlock blinks at her in shock, clearly unaware of his brother's actions. "He told me … well, everything. Or enough." Molly shifts her stance and looks down at her feet. "So you don't have to explain."

In truth, she had realized that something had happened the moment she received Sherlock's text in the wee hours, sent from Greg's phone. _'Your flat may be compromised. Walk out immediately. Don't take anything with you. -SH'_ Not fifteen minutes later, a Met officer with a bomb dog had met her and a very unhappy Toby on the pavement outside.

Mycroft had turned up just after dawn, with a team of his own to sweep her flat and a desperate need to explain. Molly couldn't read the older brother as well as the younger, but it was plain that he had said more than he intended, wracked with guilt about his part in the events that transpired at Sherringford.

"And I don't," she continues before Sherlock can lodge any protest, "I really don't want to talk about it. Not today, Sherlock. It's not important right now. It's okay..."

"It's not okay," Sherlock interrupts, eyes flashing fiercely.

Molly presses her lips together and dips her head down in the barest nod. "No," she agrees. "It's not okay. But it's …" Stopping with a sigh, Molly turns her head towards the window, trying to find something to say that doesn't sound like a lie.

"It is what it is," Sherlock says quietly, drawing her attention. He's still sat on the edge of the bed, elbows lying heavily on his knees while his shoulders sag downward. "And … and what it is … is shit."

"Oh Sherlock." Brow furrowed, Molly makes a decision and pulls the strap of her bag over her head, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud. She crosses to stand in front of him, takes his hand in both of hers.

"I can't even imagine what it was like," she says. Tears spill over her cheeks, but she can't let him go long enough to brush them away. "You know if you need me – need to talk, I mean, not..." Molly bites her lip to stop herself and twines her fingers through his, concentrating hard on that task. "It's fine if you don't," she says a moment later. "But I'm here."

"Baker Street was bombed," Sherlock says suddenly. "Mrs Hudson is fine, but the flat..." Like Molly, he keeps his eyes on their joined hands.

"Yes," Molly says when he trails off. She squeezes his fingers gently, mindful of his wounds. "I heard. It's only a flat. Nothing that can't be fixed."

"My skull didn't make it." Sherlock flinches at the sharp words, spoken out of reflex, and makes to pull his hand away, but Molly refuses to let him.

"I'll get you a new one from Barts," she promises. "Plenty of bodies there that won't miss a skull. Some of them among the staff." As usual, her attempt at humor falls flat.

Sherlock lays his free hand over Molly's. His dark head of riotous curls, already bent, dips down further. There's a long minute of silence while Sherlock remains bowed over their joined hands, fingers pressing against her skin in a rhythmic pattern. Molly lets herself be lulled into the silent song he's playing and sways a little on her feet.

It's a shock when he speaks. "I've killed before," he says quietly, as if in a confessional. "When I was gone, dismantling Moriarty's web. And Magnussen, as you know."

Molly is desperate to say something, grant him absolution, but she doesn't dare interrupt. The only thing she can do is hold on to the hand trapped between hers and let him speak.

Sherlock draws in a shaky breath. "But it was always deliberate. I made a choice. I'd planned for it. Even Magnussen; I knew going in that killing him might be necessary to protect John and Mary. And I accepted that.

"Eurus killed five people while we watched. But she told us – me, she told _me_ I could save them. I'm complicit in those murders because I couldn't … I couldn't..."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly says brokenly, unable to keep her silence any longer.

And then she does release his hand, but only to reach for him, step between his knees and pull him into her chest. Sherlock doesn't hesitate to fold his arms around her waist, press his hands against her back, and bury his face against the soft mounds of her breasts.

For a moment, the only inane thought in her head is that if he's trying to smother himself, her breasts really are too small for the job. Then his shoulders hitch under her hands, and she realizes he's crying.

A beat goes by where she's frozen in astonishment before Molly shakes it off. "There you go," she soothes, swallowing back the lump in her throat to do so. "Just let it out, love. That's alright." And on she goes, murmuring gentle encouragements until he eventually runs out of tears.

Sherlock lifts his head and leans back, but he doesn't release her, so Molly stays locked in the circle of his arms. "There now," she says tenderly, wiping at the wet tracks smeared down his cheeks with the pads of her fingers. "That's better."

He holds himself rigidly still, but he allows her to clean away the evidence of his cry. Although he's been inside her, intimacy is something she has never expected from him. A part of her cynically wonders if it will last, while the rest is too busy marveling. Because this, more than sex or marriage or babies, is the thing that Molly has always craved with Sherlock. This is a life together, in a way that those other things can only hope to be.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock says again, his normally smooth baritone rough. But he doesn't pull away from her, doesn't loosen his hold around her waist one iota. "The call … I thought …"

"You thought what?" Molly asks as she carefully brushes away a drop of moisture clinging tenaciously to his eyelashes.

Sherlock dips his head down. "I thought you wouldn't want to see me."

Molly lays her hand on his shoulder, sliding it up to the nape of his neck when Sherlock lays his forehead against her collarbone. "Well, you're a bastard," she says, stoically. "But I forgive you."

"I am not," Sherlock retorts. "It should be perfectly obvious that my parents were married not only when I was born but when I was conceived as well. Mycroft's legitimacy on the latter point, however, is fairly questionable."

That draws a snort from Molly, but she is privately relieved that Sherlock is feeling normal enough to twit at his big brother. "Fine," she says, carding her fingers through the hair at his neck. "You're a right arsehole. But I still forgive you. Why shouldn't I?"

Sherlock turns his head to the side, so that his temple rests against her shoulder. His hands press at the small of her back, urging her closer, so Molly shuffles her feet as far forward as she's able and tucks him more firmly against her, laying her cheek against his soft, riotous curls. It isn't the most comfortable position – for either of them, judging by the way Sherlock's torso is angled towards her – but she's not inclined to move.

"I didn't know," Sherlock says after a minute.

For a moment, Molly entertains the thought of feigning ignorance. But that won't gain her anything besides a painful explanation of something that's perfectly obvious; Sherlock has always been dismissive of her feelings for him and thus has never looked hard enough to realize their depth.

"Well. Now you do," she says, trying to sound brisk, but it comes out tired. She lifts her head off of his and tries to step away, but Sherlock's fingers curl in her shirt and catch the fabric, pulling her back before she can move more than an inch. "It's okay. Well, no. But it … it can't be helped."

"No." Sherlock lifts his head and looks up at her, eyes flickering minutely as he studies her face. Molly wonders what it is that he sees that makes his brow furrow minutely, but his next words don't give her much of a clue. "You should sit."

And he leans back, releasing her at last. The fingers of his left hand brush against the soft curve of her abdomen, almost gingerly. The touch is so light that Molly isn't sure it's deliberate, especially as Sherlock is moving backwards, pulling his legs back onto the mattress. Not even Sherlock Holmes can manage to look graceful or dignified clambering over a bed in ill-fitting pajamas, and Molly has to duck her head to hide a smile.

It fades the moment he reaches back and slips his palm against hers, curling their fingers together. "Come on," Sherlock says.

Getting into bed with Sherlock, even innocuously, is really not the best idea. "I should let you rest," she says, shifting her feet. "I really only wanted to drop by and check on you."

"Molly." Sherlock levels a flat look at her and tightens his grip on her hand, almost to the point of painful. "Don't go."

It's a stupid idea to stay. Monumentally so. But she can't deny him, and really, she doesn't want to.

…

Sherlock has a problem. Despite her clear reluctance, he has coaxed Molly into his bed. (John's bed, technically, although in all fairness, his friend had offered it, preferring to spend what was left of the night in Rosie's room with her.) They are propped against the headboard, Molly curled up against him, their legs tangled as they stretch out along the length of the mattress.

None of this is the problem.

The real issue is that merely the thought of unwrapping his arms from her slender frame, of relinquishing physical contact, terrifies him beyond belief. It's entirely irrational to think that letting Molly go is tantamount to losing her entirely, but the fear is a very real thing.

So when she shifts slightly in discomfort, he keeps an arm around her waist while he tucks a pillow behind them before settling her back against his side. Molly has her own arms around him, one snaked behind his back and the other flung over his stomach, and seems content to lay her head on his shoulder in a reversing of their earlier embrace.

"I meant it."

Molly starts at the sudden declaration. Goes to lift her head, to look him in the eyes, but his hand comes up and cups the back of her skull, pressing gently but firmly to keep her in place. He tucks his chin on her crown and stares blindly at John's blank walls.

"You're my friend, Molly." It's important – so, so important – that she understands this, the thing he himself only discovered in the moments after that awful phone call. "You've always been my friend. Even when I didn't want you to be."

Sherlock is concentrating very hard on his breathing. It's not something he normally does, as that rather defeats the purpose of the autonomic nervous system, but right now he's fascinated by the sensation of air filling his lungs. The way Molly's slight frame presses against him as his chest expands on the inhale and sinks down again as he exhales.

"I never thought I needed friends," he says after a moment. His thumb brushes back and forth over her bicep. "No. No, that's not right. I tried not to need them."

Sherlock presses his nose into her hair, breathing in. She doesn't smell much like the morgue today, but his memory fills the gaps and his mouth curves upwards. There's a lot of messy things mixed up in his mind with Molly's scent, but mostly it brings him peace.

After Sherringford, there's little enough peace to be had. So Sherlock closes his eyes and holds on for as long as he can.

Molly shifts slightly in his arms, but she's not trying to move away. If anything, her arms band a little tighter around his torso as she sighs a quiet and content, "Sherlock."

Guilt drags him out of the bubble that they've enclosed around themselves. It doesn't help that he knows all of Molly's sounds and what this one means. So he can't keep silent any longer; it's not fair to Molly. Being fair to his pathologist is not something that's ever figured largely in his thoughts before, which makes it all that much more important that he is so now.

"I do love you, Molly," Sherlock says, hanging onto her despite her indrawn breath. He doesn't think he can look at her and finish what he needs to say. Yes, he can talk for England, as John is fond of pointing out, when it's about murders or deductions or a guest on Jeremy Kyle. But this sort of thing is entirely out of his comfort zone, and it's harder than he expects to get the words out.

"You've always been a good friend," he says. "But that's all you'll ever be."

Very carefully, he releases his grip on Molly. He has to, because for God's sake, it's not like he can keep her. He can barely manage to be someone's friend, and more often than not he bollockses even that up.

"Oh," Molly says as she sits up, although she doesn't immediately move away from him. "I know that."

There's a half second of suffocating relief before, to Sherlock's horror, fat tears start dripping down her cheeks. Molly sniffs loudly, making an ultimately futile effort to dash them away, but they just keep coming. "I'm sorry," she gasps. "Shit. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm not- not trying to make you-" Molly hiccups back a sob. "I know you don't want me. It's okay. Really it is. I can't be angry at you because you don't feel the same way I do." And, giving up her noble efforts to hold back her tears, Molly scoots away and turns her back, weeping in earnest.

Sherlock freezes, unsure of the correct course of action. There's a fleeting thought of trying to comfort her, but frankly he's rubbish at it, and Molly is as brittle as poorly tempered steel. He's terrified she'll crumble completely under his touch. But he makes himself stay and watch as Molly's shoulders shake with her sobs, while she curls around her upraised knees. This is his doing, in a way, and it's some sort of penance to bear witness to it.

"You do have my support," Sherlock says when her tears finally peter out as he hands her a tissue. Pausing midway through wiping her nose, Molly stops and blinks up at him with an inscrutable expression. Sherlock rubs a hand over his curls. "Right. Perhaps that's not obvious. But if you need … something …" He makes a vague gesture, hoping that covers it. "I-I won't leave you to deal with this on your own, Molly. I promise."

Molly is still watching him with wide eyes. Sherlock hasn't felt this awkward since he was a teenager. No, scratch that, he's never felt this awkward about anything ever. "Mycroft will want to be involved. Expect he already knows; you did say he saw you this morning. He'll want you to keep it. You don't have to. Unless you want." Sherlock clears his throat, then plows on when Molly remains silent. "Do let me know if he tries to bully you into anything, and I'll deal with it. Really best not to try and argue with him at all. He's desperate to get off the hook with Mummy. She's been on at us about grandchildren for years-"

"There's no baby," Molly blurts, cheeks flushing pink as her confusion clears suddenly and is replaced with embarrassment.

Sherlock frowns. "You've been ill..." At the last moment, he bites back his usual slew of deductions – all the things he'd noted yesterday during the call but had failed to compile into a conclusion until just a little while earlier – realizing, for once, that they would not be welcome.

"Stomach bug," Molly says. Her fingers work mindless at the tissue, twisting it into a tight roll. "It's been going around at work. That's all it is." When Sherlock opens his mouth, she adds, "I checked."

"Those tests aren't always accurate..."

"I'm positive," Molly says. "No! I meant... I'm sure. I didn't use a home test; I checked at the lab." If Sherlock is surprised by Molly's misappropriation of lab equipment, then its overshadowed by an unfamiliar flood of conflicting emotion.

"Is … was that not the result you wanted?" he asks, because there's something about the downturn of her mouth that seems disappointed. He only notices because there's a little of that swirling about in his gut as well, intermingling with the relief from the rapid swell of anxiety he'd been battling since it first occurred to him that he might be a father.

Molly is quiet for a long time, then her lips finally part for a small sigh. "No. No, it's for the best really. Of course I would have kept it, but..." She doesn't explain further, but it goes without saying; co-parenting with this inauspicious start would have been a death knell to whatever was left of their relationship.

"I never really wanted a baby before. But Rosie..." Molly isn't looking at him. She's hunched over her crossed legs, inspecting the duvet as if its a particularly fascinating cadaver. "Sometimes she looks at me like I'm her Mum. I _feel_ like I'm her Mum sometimes."

"Well you are, a bit," Sherlock says without thinking. With as much time as she's spent taking care of Rosie in the weeks since Mary's death, it's even true in some sense.

But Molly's harsh retort quickly negates that. "No. I'm not Rosie's Mum, Sherlock. That's the problem; I'll never be her Mum. And I can't let myself think like that because … because I just can't, that's all. I can't lose something that I've never had. Not again."

It takes a moment for Sherlock to piece together what Molly's referencing – _you know why of course you do_ – and he physically flinches when it comes to him.

"I just don't know if I can keep doing this," Molly says with a quiet sniff. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

The words are not unexpected, but it still feels like his heart is being ripped out of his throat.

Molly has placed her hand on the coverlet, palm down, spreading her fingers as wide as they will go. She stares down at it, tapered fingers, fine metacarpal bones, skin riddled with the myriad imperfections that speak to him of her considerable skill in pathology. Very carefully, Sherlock reaches forward, slots his own, longer fingers into the spaces between hers. They don't fit together as some cliché of puzzle pieces, but they are complements, filling each other's empty spaces.

Leaving his hand there, Sherlock's practiced eye flits up and over Molly for a second look. Now he sees where he'd been wrong. It's not the signs of early pregnancy that lay over her like ill-fitting clothes, but stress that has taken it's toll on her physical well-being. While John and Sherlock have been battling their demons loudly and publicly and with all the drama expected from the pair, Molly has quietly assumed the burdens of John's grief and Sherlock's guilt, piling them atop her own emotional turmoil. And still she hasn't uttered a word of reproach for any of it.

"I am so truly sorry, Molly Hooper," he says.

She lifts a shoulder in response. Even that small action seems weighted down, now that he's paying attention to the right things.

His fingers shift slightly, so that the edges are brushing against hers. It's selfish, he knows, but he can't let her go without taking comfort in her touch one last time.

"It might be best if you don't … don't keep doing this," he says, though the words have to claw their way out. But they are no less true for that. Molly will never be safe as long as she connected to him, no one who claims him as a friend truly is. If he's learned nothing else from Eurus' games, it's this.

Molly lifts her hand away. "I don't know what I want," she says, voice clogged with tears. "I'm just so tired, Sherlock. And I don't know what I have left for you anymore."

Sherlock swallows back the bile that rises in his throat. The bones John found in the well haven't started to haunt him yet, but he knows they will. John, the stubborn sod, won't be pushed away; not now, after everything they've endured. But maybe Molly has enough sense to cut and run while she still has a chance. Maybe that's the best he can hope for. Maybe this is what being Sherlock Holmes really means.

Because if she does run, he won't go after her. Not if it's to keep her safe, and happy. And she will be happy – Molly Hooper always finds a way to be happy, no matter what life throws at her.

Maybe he can take a lesson from her on that.

…

Sherlock spends more than an hour after Molly leaves picking out a custom text alert tone for her number. In the end, he settles on a cheerful chirp that reminds him of the way her eyes scrunch up when she smiles. He fully expects never to hear it.

When he emerges from the bedroom, his friend – having been treated to a serenade of various alert tones through the closed door – favors him with an odd look. "What have you been doing in there?" John asks.

"Texting," Sherlock says, attempting to affect his usual inscrutable aplomb, which is not easy in John's borrowed pajamas.

Several weeks later, he nearly misses hearing Molly's new text tone for the first time as he's in the middle of an argument with John about the relative merits of his taking a supervisory role vs 'getting stuck in with the rest of us you bloody git' while they are putting Baker Street back together. When he reads her message, Sherlock bolts out the door without a word of explanation.

_Need you at Barts. -Mx_

"Molly," Sherlock says as he skids through the open door of the pathology lab. "What is it? Did something-?"

He has to stop and settle himself because Molly, standing at her workstation with a bemused expression, is fine. Her ponytail is a bit messier than usual – tied up quickly, unexpected autopsy, probably – but other than that she actually looks a great deal better than the last time he'd seen her. The intervening weeks have stripped away the burdens that were weighing her down.

"Hullo," she says. "You got here fast."

"I was in the area," Sherlock lies.

From the look she shoots him, Molly's not buying it for a second. Of course, Sherlock remembers belatedly, just because she hasn't contacted him doesn't mean that she isn't speaking to John regularly.

He ruffles his hair and tries on a smile. "Bored stiff, actually," Sherlock says. "I've nothing on. Got anything interesting?" That at least has the benefit of being more or less true, and Molly seems to accept it.

"Oh well, sort of. Come on." And as she passes him on the way to the door, Molly grabs him by the hand, towing him all the way to her office with a giddy sort of glee. "Tada!" she chirrups happily once they're inside, as she drops his hand and grabs something off her desk, spinning around to present it to him.

It's a skull, carefully cleaned and immaculately preserved. This one, unlike the one destroyed by Eurus' bomb, is a from a child, maybe about ten, although it's hard to tell exactly from just the bone.

"Poor little man," Molly says with a sad smile, caressing the skull reverently. "Died of leukemia upstairs, and his parents donated his body for research. Didn't have much of a life, by all accounts. I thought he'd like to spend his death helping Sherlock Holmes, now that you have a new mantle to put him on." And her smile blooms into a real one as she holds out the skull for him to take, eyes crinkling at the corners in just the way Sherlock had remembered.

"What's his name?" Sherlock says as he carefully cradles the skull in both hands, holding it up to look into the empty eye sockets.

"William," Molly replies with a supreme satisfaction. "But I think he'd like it if you call him Billy." Sherlock favors her with a smirk, and she positively beams.

He sets the skull gently on her desk, and then he's sweeping her into an embrace. Sherlock tucks his head down, nose pressed into her hair – he can tell from her scent that she did do an autopsy earlier, and it makes him smile.

"I need you, Molly," he says against her temple. "I need you to be my friend. If that's..." Sherlock swallows against a sudden tightness in his chest and steps back, hands sliding to her shoulders before dropping away altogether. "Is that okay?"

Molly looks up at him, brown eyes darting back and forth as she reads all the things he still doesn't know how to say, just as well as she's always been able to do. "Sherlock, listen," she says solemnly. She reaches up, cups his cheek in her hand. "No matter what happens, I'll always be your friend."

_I love you_.

The words hit him like a bolt of electricity. But even Sherlock doesn't know how he means them, so he keeps them to himself, hoarding the syllables in his mind palace like a dragon protecting precious treasure.

Instead, he reaches up and takes her hand off of his face, holding it in both of his. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says. There's a brief moment where he almost leans down to kiss her cheek, but it doesn't feel appropriate somehow, so Sherlock holds himself back. His eyes alight on the skull sitting on Molly's desk.

"The flat will be finished tomorrow. Apparently." Molly snorts, highly amused by his usual inattention to anything that's not a case. "Mrs Hudson wants to throw a 'do' at the weekend. Can you come?" Sherlock's brow furrows as he realizes he doesn't have her current schedule memorized. "We can reschedule if not. You should be there."

"Of course I'll be there," Molly says with a twinkling in her eyes. "Mrs Hudson is baking, isn't she? I wouldn't miss that."

"Undoubtedly she will," Sherlock affirms, making a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to try her hand at a red velvet cake. Surely she'll have a recipe somewhere, after having lived in the States.

One hand still holding hers, Sherlock carries Billy the Second – or Billy Jr, perhaps, he hasn't decided yet – as he walks Molly back to the lab while she chatters about the interesting autopsies she's done over the time they've spent apart. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock feels like all is right again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's the end of this beast of a fic. I think I rewrote the conversation in the bedroom at least eight times. *sigh*
> 
> I wanted this fic to be in keeping with canon, so I've left it without a proper Sherlolly resolution, which is how I interpreted what Mofatiss intended. I just don't see Mr "Relationships are not my area" jumping immediately into something with Molly, especially right after the massive trauma of basically everything that happens in the last episode. Sherlock has some major stuff to work through, but I think that there's hope for those two sometime in the future. ^.~


End file.
